


Drabble Me Collection 3

by Maybethings



Series: May Be Promptin' [157]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic, Qunlat, conlang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A third collection of prompts based off the '[letter of the alphabet] Me' prompt challenges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mourn Me - Arishok/Hawke

He shook the blood from his blade, adding to that already spattered liberally across the floor of the Keep—most of it his opponent’s. His arms ached. His legs ached. His  _everything_ ached. It had been the hardest battle he’d fought in a while. It was tempting to just let his blade fall from his weary hands, but the fight was not yet over. All the years in the city had taught him that much.

The Keep was blanketed in a pin-drop silence. Neither the Qunari forces nor the Kirkwall nobles uttered a word as they stared upon the scene. It seemed only fitting, then, that the victor should break the silence. He stepped forward, through the blood and gore, his armour heavier with every step. But he owed his opponent this much, though they had never understood each other.

The Arishok touched Sataareth to Hawke’s bloody shoulder, resting the blade against the skin without piercing it. “ _Kost, basalit-an,”_  he said aloud, with all the reverence due a warrior.” _Shokra-kata._ Your struggles end.”  _And perhaps in another life,_  he thinks,  _you would have been one of ours._


	2. Remember me - Saemus/Ashaad

“Ah—you don’t remember me, do you?” Saemus says hopefully when he runs into Ashaad for the second time on the Wounded Coast.

And—well, Ashaad’s not good with faces or names, he never has been. But he remembers the eyes, bluer than any sky he’s seen in Kirkwall, bluer than the seas around Par Vollen. And he remembers the look in those eyes, of one desperately wanting to be remembered. Everything clicks, the name and the face and the eyes all together. The Qunari scout nods shortly.

“Yes. Yes, I remember you.”


	3. Paint Me - Sten/f!Brosca

Sten is neither scribe nor artist; his hands are more suited to his blade than brush or pen. That doesn’t stop him from appreciating the paintings they find in their travels: the different hues and tones, the differences in artistic styles, the insight into how the artist and his people must think in the weight and curve of every stroke. The end of every line is as important as its beginning, after all.

“Y’draw?” Natia asks him evening as they’re setting up camp. He looks up from the painting of Orlesian tureens. Her question doesn’t make sense until it finally separates itself into two  _proper_  words. He shakes his head.

“I am a Sten, not a painter or scribe. Leave those to them.” His paintings are…brutal. Abstract. And very red.

But when it came to the Warden, he would have her drawn in firm, bold strokes and awash with noble colour, a gold-edged figure standing out in a canvas of wispy, water-colour  _basra_. She would hold blades aloft in sure hands, her hair catching the light just so and her eyes filled with the fire of battle. She would make a very interesting portrait indeed.

Sten recognises this sinuous, wandering line—it is called  _weakness_ —and he lifts the brush from his mind. To his shame, however, the colours remain indelible at the back of his thoughts.


	4. Value Me - Sten, f!Brosca

“Pffff.  _Nobles_. Whether they’re below the Stone or above it, they just don’t change.” Theramina gives a sharp, obstinate toss of her head as she walks with Sten through the corridors of Arl Eamon’s domicile. “Gossiping like they got a nug in their nethers, and then some.”

“This…Landsmeet of yours is too close for them to deter you, Warden. Their idle talk matters nothing.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, we’re-a still march right into that hall tomorrow and brain Loghain between the eyes…” Her eyes flash green, bright and sharp as saar-qamek. “Them nobles, though. I don’t like them talking about my people like that.” Sten has been with the Warden long enough to know that she means less  _dwarves_ and more  _my friends._ She has made her choices—and she has picked  _them_ , the flawed and the weak, the cowards and the fearful, the bitter and brave and strong and loyal. For better or worse, the Warden fights the Archdemon as much for her little band as she does for the whole of muck-filled Ferelden, and Orzammar besides.

He’s made his choices too, and he picks the Warden.

“The whole lot can take a long breath off a short shaft—you’re good in my books,  _kadan_ ,” she says firmly, wrapping the word with the same firm, low-key affection that she places on  _duster_ sometimes and  _salroka_ always.

“And you are not so bad yourself. Surprisingly.”

“Eh, don’t mention it.”

A smile flickers to his face, a thin copy of her smug half-grin. “As you say, _kadan_.”


End file.
